The train hummed softly beneath their feet, a gentle rhythm that matched the sway of summer air.
Haruto sat by the window, watching buildings blur into green fields. Beside him, Aoi leaned forward, sketchbook balanced on her knees.
"Still drawing?" he asked.
She smiled without looking up. "Just lines. I like the motion—it feels alive."
Haruto chuckled. "You draw everything alive."
"Isn't that the point?" she said, turning the page. "Even still things have feelings if you look long enough."
He thought about that. The words felt simple, but they lingered—like watercolor that refused to dry too fast.
---
The art exhibit was being held at a small museum downtown. Posters fluttered outside, bright with color.
Inside, the air was cool and faintly smelled of varnish and old paper.
They wandered between displays, stopping here and there.
Aoi's eyes glimmered as she examined brush strokes, occasionally tilting her head, lost in thought.
Haruto followed, not because he understood every piece, but because watching her made him curious about them.
> Maybe art isn't about seeing what's drawn, he thought.
Maybe it's about who you're seeing it with.
---
At one corner of the gallery, Aoi stopped before a painting of an empty classroom at sunset.
The colors were simple—warm oranges fading into blue—but the feeling was unmistakable. Quiet. Familiar.
"It reminds me of our art room," she murmured.
Haruto nodded. "Yeah… like it's waiting for someone to come back."
Aoi turned to him, her expression soft. "You really see things differently now."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I'm just finally looking."
She blinked at that, a hint of color rising to her cheeks.
---
They ended up outside after an hour, sitting on a shaded bench near the museum fountain.
The water glimmered in the afternoon light, tossing little reflections over their faces.
Aoi sipped her lemonade. "You didn't seem bored. I was worried."
"I wasn't," Haruto said honestly. "You made it easy to enjoy."
She giggled. "That's my art, then."
He tilted his head. "You mean, drawing?"
"No," she said, smiling. "Making things lighter for someone. That's an art too, isn't it?"
Haruto looked at her for a moment. "Yeah… I think it is."
> Maybe that's what she does without noticing, he thought.
She paints moments without using a brush.
---
When they walked back toward the station, the air had cooled, the city glowing in the slow amber of evening.
Aoi matched his pace, their shadows stretching side by side on the pavement.
"Thanks for coming," she said quietly. "You don't usually say yes to things like this."
"I didn't want to miss it," he admitted.
Aoi turned to him, surprised by the ease in his tone. "You've changed, Haruto."
He looked ahead, thoughtful. "Maybe… but I think I'm just catching up."
"Catching up?"
"To the way you see things," he said simply.
Aoi's steps slowed, her heart fluttering for a reason she couldn't quite name.
> He says it so casually, she thought.
Like kindness is just part of breathing now.
Maybe it always was.
---
As the train doors closed behind them, Aoi peeked at the reflection in the window — Haruto's calm face, his hand loosely resting on the rail, the faint smile that seemed to appear more often lately.
She drew a tiny sketch of it later that night — the reflection, the warmth, and the words he'd said.
Underneath, she wrote softly:
> "Catching up."
And for the first time, she wondered if she was, too.